lines crossed
by prouvaires
Summary: -and she did beg in the end.- ArthurMorgana


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Merlin. I wish I did.

**Pairing: **ArthurMorgana

**Rating: **T

**A/N: **Got my laptop confiscated because I refused to learn my Ovid translation … and wrote this in celebration of getting it back, and learning forty damn lines.

--

She makes a case that all you've ever needed was a pretty face. And, believe me, she could get anywhere she wanted with hers. She flashes that (mind-fucking) smile at any man and anything she wants is hers within as short a time as possible. Except one thing.

You see, she lives in this pretty gilded cage called _Camelot_ with a man who says he loves her like his own daughter but would burn her in a second if he found out the _truth _(and she's tired of lying) and there's another man (boy) who pretends to be so strong and mature and she thinks she's the only one who knows that behind the _I'm-so-perfect _attitude is a scared, insecure little child who had to grow up far too fast.

(But then didn't they all?)

And inside her prison are all these barbed lines that surround everyone and hem them in. You catch your skirt on one and it's ripped to shreds as quickly as your reputation. She'd like to flip a switch to see who's got the most, because she'd bet her pretty ass that it's her. The servants complain that they've got it worst. (She'd be laughing for their naïveté if it didn't make her want to cry.)

They're free. They can leave when they want, love who they want, do what they want. Sure, they have to take orders, but at the end of the day there's always the _choice_. (She's almost forgotten what having a choice is like.)

She sits and ponders in front of her mirror, staring at her (beautiful) reflection, and she's not expecting the pounding on the door.

"Come in!" she calls through a yawn, swivelling around gracefully to find Arthur standing in the doorway, looking rumpled.

"Have you seen Merlin?" he asks abruptly, his eyes flashing her once up and down (because he's _oh-so_-subtle. Not) before meeting hers, (emerald) green into (sapphire) blue, melding like molten gemstones.

"No," she replies slowly, rising to her feet. "Did he get lost playing hide-and-seek again?"

He affords her a brief glare, snapping the door shut behind himself as he moves further into the room.

"Mature," he comments sarcastically, flopping down to sprawl on his back on her bed, absently pulling the blanket over himself. (It's kind of ironic because she's always promised she'd never let Arthur into her bed, and yet in his usual irritating way he's managed to make her break that promise.)

"Get off," she commands firmly, rising to her feet and reaching to try to tug the blanket from him.

"Make me," he challenges, his lips pulled up to one side in that infuriating (adorable) smirk he has. She sighs as his fingers clutch the opposite end of the blanket and lets her end fall. (Because, you see, one of those barbed lines is between the right and wrong sort of behaviour. And one form of wrong behaviour is allowing your foster-brother to tempt you into a physical argument.)

"I thought you were looking for Merlin?" she reminds him, glaring at him askance as he pulls himself up into a sitting position, the blanket pooling in his lap before he picks it up and whips it expertly around her waist, drawing her closer against her will.

"Very nice," she praises sarcastically, trying to wriggle away. "How long did you spend learning that trick?"

He keeps applying pressure until she's standing only an inch from his knees, looking furious (beautiful).

"It was time well spent," he replies with a laugh in his voice as she tries to back off. "Don't pretend you're not secretly ecstatic to be this close to me."

It's funny (not really) because their whole lives have been this bullshit production that they don't _care _about each other (and really they care more than life) but the lines strike again as she strains back against the blanket that he grasps tightly in both hands.

"I'm your sister, remember?" she states blankly. With a sigh, he releases her, allowing her to stumble backwards as the blanket droops gratefully to the ground.

"How long are you going to keep using that excuse?" he asks quietly, flopping backwards again. She resumes her seat in front of her dresser, bowing her head so he can't see her blush reflected in the mirror.

"Come on, Morgana," he teases, tossing a pillow at her silent form. It hits her in the side, and with a cry of outrage she picks it up (crosses a line) and uses it to beat him with mercilessly until he's breathless and laughing and she's laughing too. With mirth-weakened hands, he pulls her down onto the bed, rolling and pinning her down so she can't hit him again.

"Beg for mercy," he orders her as she writhes beneath him, completely unable to move.

"Never," she counters, her eyes flashing dangerously (temptingly) and he's lost in them briefly before they snap shut as she throws everything into one last-ditch attempt at freeing herself. He applies all his strength and with some satisfaction watches (feels) her give up and relax against the coverlet, her chest heaving as she glowers at him.

"Beg," he whispers (and there's a definite double meaning there that she's going to pretend she doesn't hear) and she shakes her head.

"I would _never _beg you for anything."

"If you don't plead mercy in the next three seconds, I'm going to kiss you," he warns suddenly. He feels more than hears her sharp intake of breath, and although she'll deny it later he sees the desire that ignites momentarily in her eyes.

"Three …" he murmurs, his eyes staring into hers as the lids droop invitingly. "There's still a chance," he tells her. "Two …"

The "mercy" is there, on the tip of her tongue. She can feel it, taste it, and she knows she should say it (all those lines, remember?) but she just _can't_.

He's half-way through whispering "one" when she crashes her lips onto his, moaning wantonly into his mouth and striving to free her hands so she can tangle them in his hair. He levers himself up onto his elbows, the momentary surprise giving way to pure need as his mouth moves against hers and their bodies twist against each other. (All those lines are just dots in the distance now.)

She's thinking about broken promises and love and destiny and a million other things she can't name as he unlaces her dress tenderly (and probably one of the thoughts should be "stop", but it's not and it never will be. Because this is kind of how it always should have been) and she pulls his tunic over his head and maybe if she was a little more sensible or a little more moral she'd push him away and out the door and pretend like this episode never even happened.

Because, for god's sake, they're _brother _and _sister _(foster, her mind whispers) and there's Gwen (who has Lancelot) and rules (aren't rules there to be broken?) and destiny (is overrated) and this shouldn't happen.

But then his lips meet the soft skin on her neck and she fists her hands into his hair and morals and rules and responsibility are the _last _thing she's thinking about (she's never really been one for doing what she's told).

And then they're together and she cries out at the pain and the joy and then … he's _god._

(And she did beg in the end.)

--

**A/N: **Ovid's Metamorphoses is really dull. And I'm having a really bad week (it's always the last friend you expect who stabs you in the back) so please leave a review and cheer me up.

Oh, and please don't favourite without reviewing!


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